Blood
by axelkairi
Summary: What is blood? Blood is life. Blood is what seeps from a cut. Blood is what pumps through our hearts, our bodies, our veins and arteries. Without blood, nothing lives. Without blood, everything dies. AxelKairi. The story of how a murderer can love. Haitus
1. Chapter 1

What is blood?

Blood is life. Blood is what seeps from a cut. Blood is what pumps through our hearts, our bodies, our veins and arteries. Without blood, nothing lives.

Without blood, everything dies.

It always fascinated me how one simple thing controlled our lives. Parents get scared when they see their child bleeding. Some people are afraid of blood; some people are disgusted by it.

I was fascinated with it.

Why shouldn't I have been fascinated with it? It was life. Life was fascinating.

But even more fascinating than life was death.

It was fascinating because no one knew exactly what happened when someone died. Their heart stopped, their breathing stopped, they got cold. Their blood stilled.

I learned about death when I was very young. It had become almost as familiar as a friend. A friend that stabbed you in the back. A friend that laughed at you when they thought you weren't listening. A friend that wasn't really a friend at all.

My grandparents died before I was born. On my mother's side, my grandfather was killed in a war. My grandmother gave birth to my mother, but died from grief soon afterward. On my father's side, my grandmother got the flu and, with her poor immune system, died within a month. My grandfather suffered from a stroke.

My brother died before I was even alive enough to understand that he was there. It was an odd scene; me, as a new infant, crying as I was brought into this world, and my mother crying as well, holding another baby that wasn't crying.

My aunt died when I was two. My parents told me that her car got hit with another car. The truth is she was drunk and was coming home after cheating on my uncle. He found out and crashed into her on the freeway.

He died when I was three, after being in a coma for a year.

My other aunt died when I was five. She had never been married, never been asked out, and never been kissed. She broke into her high school crush's house and hung herself in his closet.

My dog died when I was eight. He got loose late at night when I let him out before I went to bed. I chased him from the backyard to the front when he caught sight of a squirrel. I wasn't fast enough, and was forced to watch as he got hit with our neighbor's car.

Yes, death was a close friend to me. I'd thought I understood death. I'd thought I couldn't learn any more about death. It had taken so much from me already, taught me so much. How could I ever be surprised again?

Oh, how wrong I was.

My mother, Diane, was locked in her room, packing a suitcase. I sat on the edge of the bed, saying nothing, simply watching her. Tears ran down her face in streams, and the sounds of her sobs nearly broke my heart.

I'd known for years that this day would come. The day when she finally left my father. I just didn't realize how truly frightened of him she was.

I'd seen him do many things to her. And all of which she didn't deserve. I'd seen him yell at her, order her around, embarrass her in front of his football friends. I'd seen him threaten her, slam the door in her face, break her favorite things. And I'd seen him hit her. Countless times.

I also didn't realize how truly naive my mother was. Night after night, when she thought I'd already gone to bed, I'd hear her crying softly, cleaning up the kitchen, and muttering to herself about how "it was just this one time" or how "he's never gonna do it again".

What lies those were.

My mother finished packing and pulled the zipper of her suitcase. She'd overestimated how much it could hold, and was having trouble closing it.

I stood up and took the zipper from her. "Let me get it," I said softly, zipping it for her.

"Thank you, Logan," she said quickly, quietly, "thank you." She grabbed the handle, but I pushed her hand away and grabbed it myself, heaving it up.

"It's too heavy for you," I protested gently. "I'll get it."

"Thank you, thank you," she said, trying to smile, but failing miserably. "Now let's get out of here; hurry!" She ran to the door and opened it roughly. Then she let out a short scream.

My father, Jackson, was standing in the doorway. In his right hand he held a black pistol. In his left, a crinkled note. The note my mother left on the table for him to find after he went to work.

"Jackson!" my mother gasped, stepping as far away from him as she could. "What are doing here? I thought you had work today?"

My father met her fearful gaze with a furious glare. "Forgot my wallet," he said simply, between clenched teeth. He stepped inside the room, closing the door gently behind him. He took in the scene with what seemed to be uninterest, but I could see past it. His eyes found the suitcase, then returned to my mother. It appeared he still hadn't noticed me. "You ain't plannin' on leavin' me, are ya, Diane?" he asked.

"Jackson, I -"

"Are ya?" he asked again, cutting her off.

My mother hesitated, wringing her hands nervously. "Of course not, Jackson," she finally answered, her voice nothing but a whisper.

"Bull shit!" My father backhanded her hard across the face, and she stumbled into her vanity. Her perfume bottle that she'd forgotten to pack fell to the ground and broke.

I took a step forward, lifting my hand to help her, but thought better of it. She'd handled this before; she was fine.

"How long've ya been plannin' this?" he yelled, stomping up close to her. His gaze flickered to me, then he did a double take. He looked at me, then the suitcase. "You helpin' her, Logan?"

"Yeah," I snapped back. "I am." My fingers tightened on the strap of the suitcase, ready to hit him with it if he came at me.

"You best watch yerself, boy," he growled, taking a step toward me.

My mother stood up and put a hand on his arm. "It was my idea, Jackson," she pleaded. "Don't hurt him, please!"

"Shut up!" My father elbowed her away. "I'll do what I want, bitch!" He turned to her and punched her in the nose.

She yelped and fell back onto the bed, her hand fleeting to her nose and mouth.

But he wasn't done. He grabbed her shoulders and threw her into her vanity mirror, making it shatter and making her scream.

"Dad, let go of her"! I yelled, letting go of the suitcase and running at him. I grabbed his shoulder and spun him around, but he punched my cheek, and I stumbled to the side, tripping over my feet.

He turned back to my sobbing mother and cocked his gun. "You ain't leavin' me, bitch!" he roared. "After all I done fer you, you ain't leavin' me!"

"Jackson, no!" she screamed, her hands coming up in front of her face to protect herself.

"Mom!" I cried, pushing myself to my feet.

The whole room shook with the sound of the shot. I put my hand on the wall to stable myself while my other hand flew instinctively to my ear. My eyes closed so tight it was painful. My mother's scream was cut short by the sound and, in the absense of such a loud noise, the _thud_ her body made when it hit the ground seemed even louder.

My breath came in and out in ragged gasps as I opened my eyes. I avoided looking at her, but couldn't stop myself.

She lay on the ground, arms sprawled around her head, her neck bent at an awkward angle. Her eyes were wide, her face still wet with tears, and her hair was being stained from blonde to red with the blood flowing out of the hole in her temple.

My mouth hung open, and I turned and threw up right there. I coughed and gagged, then stood up and wiped my mouth, glaring at my father in disgust and disbelief. "You killed her," I breathed, my voice strained.

My father let out a chuckle as he looked down at her. "Yea, guess I did," he replied, a slight smirk on his lips.

My brow furrowed. "How can you laugh?" I asked, walking towards him, trying not to wobble. "You just killed you _wife!_ My _mother!_ Don't you even _care?_"

He laughed, throwing his head back. "Listen, son -" he started.

"_Fuck_ you!" I roared, punching him in the face. I grabbed his wrist tight and wrenched the gun from his grip.

"What are you doing with that -" he started to ask, putting his hand up as if to deter me.

I said nothing as I shot him in the mouth, then the chest. His knees crumpled underneath him and his head hit the bed, before his weight dragged the rest of his body to the ground. I stomped my foot on his lungs and emptied the rest of the bullets into his skull.

On that day, both my parents were killed. The police came, but by that time I was already gone, and covering my tracks. I knew they'd think I killed both of them if I stayed there.

I made my way to the city, the gun still in my hand and only twenty bucks in my pocket. And I went straight for the bar.

I sat down and slammed my fist down on the table for the bartender's attention. "Scotch," I growled, keeping my head turned down and my eyes on the table.

"I'm gonna need to see some ID," he said, cleaning a glass with a dirty looking rag.

I sighed through my nose and lifted the gun onto the table. I cocked it and pointed it at his head. I lifted my eyes to meet his. "Scotch," I repeated.

"Whatever, man," he said, holding his hands up and backing up behind the counter. He ducked down and came up with a glass bottle full of dark liquid. He pulled out a short glass and poured the drink in. He sat the glass in front of me, then took a step back.

I kept my finger on the trigger and took a long drink with my left hand.

"You got a name?" the man asked tentatively.

I stepped mid-gulp and looked at him again. I swallowed the rest and wiped my mouth. "Yeah," I answered. What's the most common name...? Alex? "It's Axel." Aw, fuck. Pronounced it wrong.

"That's an unusual name, huh?"

I shrugged and finished off the rest of my scotch. "That's what makes it mine," I said and fished out the twenty. "Thanks." I nodded to him, then started to walk out of the bar.

I heard him sigh in relief and pick up the twenty from the counter. At the last second, I turned around and shot him in the head.

On that day, both my parents were killed. An innocent man's life was ended early. On that day, I had my first drink. On that day, I became Axel, the Flurry of Dancing Flames.

On that day, I became a murderer.


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer: No.**

A/N: Sorry it took so long! This is a hard one to write! But I wrote the beginning of this chapter in my notebook, and I'm hoping that if I type it everything will just come to me from there and amalgamate to form chapter two! Read and review please!

P.S.: In the first chapter, his mom called him Axel once instead of Logan. I have to say, she meant to say Logan. That was a bad typo on my part, and I will fix it when I post this, so as to erase any confusion of future readers. This was brought to my attention by my dear friend Kelsey, and I thank her for pointing out my mistakes lol. Love you Kelsey!

**Blood**

**Chapter Two**

Eight years. It's been eight years since that day. Eight years, full of blood, fire, screaming... Eight years of having no steady job, no real home, no friends, no family.

It's been a great eight years.

After having my fun in Atlanta, Georgia, I took one of my victim's cars and made my way through South and North Carolina. By the time I was eighteen, I'd made my mark on four states. And no one even knew who I was. At twenty I was able to hold a semi-permanent residence in Covington, Kentucky, but I got careless and made a mistake. Which was just what the county cops were waiting for. From then on, I'd made a name for myself, which is the worst thing for anyone to do when they are... in my line of work.

They called me the Flurry of Dancing Flames. And now everytime there's a fire, people think I did it.

So I quickly moved on. At twenty-one I lived in Cincinnati, Ohio, then Columbus, and at twenty-two I moved on to Cleveland. I turned twenty-three in Indianapolis. There, I met a young blonde, by the name of Meredith. I never learned her last name. We met at a library, and she was obviously interested in me, so I decided to humor her, and take her out for her twenty-first birthday. I took her to a club, and the hours there were amusing, watching her drink until she could hardly stand up. I remember dancing with her, and whispering "Happy Birthday."

Right before I burned the building to the ground.

There were three survivors from the "inexplainable" fire. Meredith was not one of them.

So I poured a glass of wine, watched the news, and was gone before the police had even brought up my name.

But my life had no real story until the afternoon of August 4th, 2005. A typical day with no real importance. That's what I thought.

Until I saw _her_.

But I'm getting ahead of myself. Let me begin at the beginning.

And this story begins with groceries.

I was waiting outside my favorite grocery store, Kroger. It was favorite not for its items, for those weren't very impressive, but instead for its placement. It was a little ways off the major roads, and only locals and die-hard fans would go there.

This made it perfect for "grocery shopping".

I stole a glance at a young woman exiting the store. Her cart held a cake, and various party items. Not what I needed. I watched her as she went to her car, and saw the she owned the bright blue Prius in the center of the parking lot. Too visible, anyway.

Another woman exited, looking to be about forty-something, with a large body, pushing a cart stuffed with everything you could ever need for a month. She was already looking around, as if she expected someone to come at her, or follow her.

I rolled my eyes. Too many things to carry, and she was too perceptive. Or crazy. Either way, it wouldn't help me.

Many people passed me as I posed as an employee on his break, taking drags on my cigarrette occassionally to make myself look occupied. Most of them didn't take a second look at me, though I did get a wink or two by some of the younger shoppers. I offered them smiles and nods back, and they'd giggle and pull out their cell phones, or whisper heatedly with their friends.

I laughed. They had no idea of who I was. That was what made my job so easy. Appearances were one of the most decieving things in this world. And I used that fact completely to my advantage.

Finally, an older man walked out carrying a few plastic bags in one hand, and a gallon of milk in the other. His hair was graying and balding, and his car seemed to be on the empty side of the lot, near the old Chinese restaurant and under-construction Pizza Hut.

I smiled, then quickly wiped it off my face. Nothing to draw attention to myself. I stomped out my cigarrette with the toe of my shoe, then walked behind the line of bushes used to make the store seem more attractive, out to the parking lot. When the man reached his car, I was already on the other side, opening the passenger door in time with the driver's side.

The man's eyes widened when he saw me, then his brow narrowed and he opened his mouth to yell something at me. I rolled my eyes and reached across the car, grabbing his throat and pulling him inside. I shut the shotgun door behind me with my foot, then shut him inside with me. I pulled out my knife from my boot, slammed his head into the seat to disorient him, then slit his throat. He made a gurgled yelp of surprise and pain under my hand, and he shook violently, until his weight fell forward, and I was holding him up. I drew my hand back quickly, avoiding any blood that might fall on me, grabbed his groceries, then stepped outside. I locked the car door, then shut it behind me, walking into the shadows immediately before anyone could notice me.

I was struck by the urge to set his car on fire. I pushed the thought away angrily and stepped into the alley between the grocery store and the old Chinese restaurant, where my car was parked. I tossed the bags into the backseat, then started the engine, pulling out, driving across the parking lot, and melding into traffic easily. Why did I have to be such a pyromaniac? It was just going to get me caught.

I pulled up into the parking lot beside Best Western and parked my car in my usual spot: near a brick wall corner, in the shadows. I stuffed the groceries in a large backpack, then pulled it onto my shoulder, locking my car behind my back, then slipping the keys into my pocket. Normally, the hotel wouldn't let their guests bring in their own groceries, since they wanted to sell more things in their minifridge.

But they couldn't kick me out if they were too busy thinking a gallon of milk was a large anatomy textbook.

"Hey, Axel!" the woman behind the check-in counter called. Her long brown hair was pulled back in a french braid, and her makeup had darkened considerably since I'd first started staying here. It was no secret she had some sort of crush on me; apparently she was trying to make herself look more attractive to impress me.

I gave her a crooked grin, and she blushed. "Hey, there, Aerora," I answered, shifting my bag further up on my shoulder.

"Back from school already?" she asked, leaning over the table at me. Her face looked open, but a slight curve to her lips told me she was freaking out on the inside and choosing her words and movements extremely carefully.

I laughed once inwardly, and she didn't seem to notice. "Yeah," I answered. "It was just lecture today." The lie slipped easily from my lips, as it always did. I never told her which college I attended, however, for if she ever grew suspicious, she could easily call up the school. And then I'd have to kill her.

And I _really_ didn't want to kill her.

Aerora made a face, but was still smiling. "Sounds boring," she droned, resting her jaw on her hand.

I walked up to the front desk and leaned my hip on it, resting my arm on the counter, my hand close to hers. "Yeah, but what can you do, huh?" I shifted my bag again, making sure she noticed. "I have a shitload of work to do, though."

"Really?" she asked. "That's no fun."

"Yeah, I got paper to write, and a few chapters to read, and then I gotta take, like, ten pages of notes." I moved my hand over hers and shot her meaningful glance. "I'll probably be up all night."

Her blush deepened and she smiled at me through her lashes. "I'll have to come up and check on you," she said. "Just to make sure you haven't - I don't know - passed out on the floor?"

I smirked and leaned in to give her a kiss on her cheek. "I'll be waiting," I whispered in her ear, then made my way upstairs, pretending not to notice the way she was biting her lip in expectation.

~X~

I woke up late the next morning with a naked Aerora in my arms and a large fake anatomy textbook about to fall off the bed.

I breathed in the scent of her vanilla shampoo, and sighed. I felt a little bad about what I was doing. She probably thought she was my girlfriend or something. But in reality, she was just relief for the demands of the male human body.

Well, she never had to know that.

I moved myself away from her, and happily the only response she made was a mumble and a lazy repositioning of her body. I rubbed my eyes and moved out of bed, shrugging on my boxers and jeans before pouring a tall glass of milk.

I briefly wondered if she'd still be in that bed if she knew what I'd been doing for the past eight years. All the people I'd killed.

I laughed quietly to myself. Of course not. If anyone knew, I'd be stuck in jail on death's row already.

I pulled on a clean black t-shirt and walked out of the room, to the elevator. It was a habit of mine, since I'd turned thirteen, to take a jog in the morning. I believe my reasoning behind it had been to escape my father's insults to my mother about how she prepared his breakfast. Something along those lines.

I nodded my good mornings to the maitenance staff, then stepped outside.

And that's when I saw her.


End file.
